


Subject Zero

by BlackMajjicDuchess



Category: Malevolence
Genre: Gen, Laboratories, Neurology & Neuroscience, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-06-10 12:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6957304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMajjicDuchess/pseuds/BlackMajjicDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At some point, cell cultures and in vitro assays weren't going to be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Poaching of Simon Lafferty

**Author's Note:**

> https://books.pronoun.com/malevolence/
> 
> This book will consume you.

* * *

_Something is missing. There’s a variable I’m not seeing._ She dabbed a fingertip on a block of Sort-kwik—one should never lick fingers in a laboratory—and began thumbing through her stack of existing neurobiology research. _So much_  study on the subject of the brain and all of it by idiots. She sighed with long-exhausted patience, moving a strand of hair from her eyes. Long past 7 p.m...her hair was falling out of its band, but she didn't care enough to fix it. She focused instead on work, turning page after page after page of absolutely nothing. She was just swiveling her chair away from the stack of research when someone hammered on the window and nearly sent her sailing out of her skin. She didn’t even have time to hide the glare of open contempt at whoever’s face was in her lab window. 

Goofy, vapid grin. Unkempt beard. She could almost _smell_ him through the glass. Simon Lafferty, the least useful pen-to-paper monkey on Kali's payroll. She remembered her fake smile, then. She waved lightly. He held up a greasy white paper bag and pointed at it, mouthing, “Wanna?”

She'd have taken a steep pay cut to work in a nicer lab, but Graham Summers' lack of security was more important to her purposes. She stood off of her lab stool and held up one finger. _One moment._ The second she turned away from the window, though, her smile disappeared. Simon was a discredit to scientists everywhere. Barely made it out of college with a degree, skated from lab to lab before being politely handed off by each of his PIs. He did just enough to be considered competent—not by her standards, of course—but not enough to be worth a salary and tenure. Besides that, he was irritating, distracting, and insulting.

She turned her computer screen away from him. Saved the files. Said a silent goodbye in her mind to all of her lovely work before shutting it down and tugging the thumb drive out of the tower. Of course, she didn’t leave everything on her computer. With the way electronic security was evolving, she didn’t trust the machines to keep her secrets.

Her eyes fell upon a pale, unassuming beige notebook. The pages were well worn, almost fluffy. The paper had gotten wet when a colleague she had since fired spilled acetate buffer on her bench top. She didn’t let anyone else into her lab anymore. Her team worked beneath her and down the hall, completely apart spatially. No distractions. No spills. No mistakes or disasters. Complete quiet, just the way she liked.

The unwritten laws of science dictated that any lab notebook was a property of the lab. In this case, it’d be the Kali Institute. In this case, it’d be Graham Summers. Even thinking of her notes in the hands of a buffoon like Graham made her stomach turn. There was no telling what would happen if her pure, unfiltered intelligence ended up in the hands of adults with the intellectual capacity of children.

She took up the notebook and lovingly ran her thumb along its edge, then moved it to a briefcase in an obscure corner—out of sight of the cameras in the hallway. She locked the briefcase and glanced up at the window. Simon wasn’t there. She craned her neck to peer down both directions of the hallway. It was a good thing the security cameras were meant to protect the researchers from intruders and thieves, and not the unsuspecting public from rogue researchers.

She shrugged out of her lab coat and hung it on a peg behind the door.

Simon had moved on to the break room. A gentleman would have waited for her, but Simon wasn’t that. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, and made her presence known. He had his mouth buried in a disgustingly large burger, but managed to wave at her anyway, ketchup-covered fingers and all.

“Simon!” she greeted warmly. "You're here late."

He swallowed a bite without chewing and swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Ah, Louise!” Burger in hand, he swiped up the greasy  bag. He shook it. The paper rustled. “I got you a burger. They were buy one get one half off.”

“You didn’t want both?”

The insult was completely over his head, not that she was surprised. “I figured you’d be here working late--as usual--so I thought you might be hungry.”

Chivalry. How...trite. “How sweet of you to care, Simon. Actually, though, I took a break about an hour ago for dinner. I’m not hungry.”

He shrugged it off, though she could tell he was hurt by it. What must he be thinking, she wondered? What sorts of inane thoughts ricocheted around in the minds of the inferior? What did morons think about in their free time? Surely not the grandiose ideals and lofty goals of the elite. Nothing at all like her. Not worth her esteem nor her time, save for the small amount of time it took to move a pawn from one square to the next. 

“What are you thinking about?” Simon inquired, a bizarre reflection of her own thoughts. His head tilted sideways, reminding her of a common street dog.

“Saving the world,” she mentioned offhandedly.

He stared, then laughed nervously. “You’re so bloody smart,” he revered, shaking his head in amazement. “I wish I had even half of your imagination." 

 _I bet you do,_ she thought to herself. She smiled and watched him eat, amusing herself by wondering at the fluctuations of brain activity that may or may not have been occurring between his oversized ears.

He swallowed a bite and prattled on. "Everyone's talking about you, you know. Didn't you just get something published as first author? Some big shot medical journal?”

 _"Cell,"_ she confirmed. "It's out next week, in fact."

He shook his head. "Amazing. I've been out of university for two years and never had anything published first author."

"Thank you. I'm sure you'll find your big break soon."

He nodded and let the subject lapse. “Do you watch Doctor Who?” he asked instead, dropping his elbows upon the break room table and pulling her untouched burger toward him. She shook her head slowly. He began unwrapping the second burger. “Oh, that’s a shame. You should watch it. It seems like something you would like. It’s like...time travel and aliens. There’s this time lord everyone calls The Doctor--he doesn't ever say his real name--and he has this pretty sidekick companion with him everywhere. Really great. I mean, _really_ great.”

“I see.”

“Hey, I was wondering…”

 _Here it comes,_ she thought. For weeks, Simon had been slowly closing in on her personal space. Extra sandwiches, friendly hallway chit chat, completely unnecessary smiles. Louise could sniff out emotional manipulation when there was any to be had. He was trying to worm his way into her good graces. If his record was any indication, he was about to ask her out or ask to join her lab. She wasn't at all concerned, though. There was no one alive that could outfox her. She was hundreds of moves ahead of all around her. 

“Do you have any openings in your lab? I’ve only heard snippets of what you’re working on--brain science and whatnot--but it sounds completely fascinating. I was a psych major in university and I think with your neuroscience and my psychology smarts, we could make a pretty good team.” He straightened himself up in his chair. “What do you think?” He sank his teeth into the burger and raised his eyebrows, beseeching.

“I don’t usually take on proteges,” she deferred.

He wagged one finger. “Not a protege,” he said around a mouthful of bastardized food. “A partner.”

She raised one brow.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Here’s this guy...this loser, overweight nobody from the cognitive science lab down the hall, probably wants in my pants…” He trailed off for a minute, looked away, and laughed. “I sure wouldn’t mind, but...well. You’re probably sure I won’t be any help to you. Maybe I even get in the way. But. But! I walk past your lab an awful lot, and you seem frustrated, lost in thought almost. You’re stuck, aren’t you? Reached a brick wall in your studies?”

He waited for her to answer, but she wasn’t going to waste her breath...even if he was right.

He continued. “But that’s just it, see? You know how many brick walls I’ve hit? Billions. The way to get over them is just to collaborate quick with someone you didn’t think to talk to before.” He leaned back in his chair and held both arms aloft. “That’s me.” A slice of onion slid out from between the buns and fell onto the floor. His eyes followed it. He frowned.

“You might be right,” she allowed, pointedly ignoring the onion. It just might have been enough of a symbol of flagrant debauchery to unravel her resolve. “Perhaps a fresh perspective is exactly what I need.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” he exclaimed, slamming a fist down onto the break room table. The salt shaker tipped over, but he ignored that.

All Louise could think about was what would have happened if that had been a tube of cytomegalovirus carrying her precious proprietary formula. A spill of genius on a bench. She certainly didn’t want Simon putzing about in her laboratory. No way in hell. “Actually, I have a better idea. Earlier, you said you wished you had half of my imagination.”

“Yeah. Anyone would. Thomas said he’d give his right arm to work in your lab. Bridge wonders who she’d have to blow to work on Mentis. Graham dodders around and tells us not to bother you, that your work is sensitive and expensive and requires greater clearance than what us scrubs are worth.”

She smirked at that. “Graham said that?”

He pouted. “Not exactly, but we all knew what he meant. Come on, Louise...let me help you.”

She smiled and sat down across from him at the table, folding her hands. “I have a confession to make,” she whispered. He tilted in closer, listening intently. “What I’m working on is so ground-breaking, earth-shattering, world-saving that I can’t even talk about it to normal people. It’s so far above the heads of these common bench-rats that I seldom even care to explain it. Not even Graham would understand. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

He blinked and looked at her, understanding dawning. “I think so.”

“What I need is someone just as brilliant as I am to help me on this project, but it has to stay top secret. Do you understand? If your colleagues in cognitive science heard even a hint of my project, they’d steal it, take all of the credit, and sell it to the government for millions of pounds.”

His eyes got big. “Your research is worth...millions of pounds?”

“At _least_. I mean it. It's incredible stuff.”

“Wow,” he breathed.

“Yes, exactly. So, yes. I could use the help. Another sharp mind on the data would do wonders for my progress. I'm almost there. Any day now, I'll make another major breakthrough. But, I can’t just let any old sniveling university grad into my lab. If I’m going to let you work for me, I have to know I can trust you, and that you'll do whatever it takes for this to succeed.”

He grinned. “You can trust me, Louise. I would never sell out your secrets.”

She screwed her face up into an innocent expression. “It’s all about helping people to unlock their true potential, right?”

He nodded vigorously. “I’m all about the project. Honestly, I just want to work with you. More than anything. I’d kill for the chance.”

Her concern melted into a sweet smile. “Lovely.” She straightened and sighed. “Very well then. You’re hired. Inform Tully that you’ll be leaving his lab. Let him wonder where you’re going. They’ll love it when they see you in a white coat through my window.”

His eyes went nearly glassy with the thought. “Oh, God. I can’t wait to see his face.”

“We’re going to do great things together, Simon.” 

Of that, she was absolutely sure.


	2. The Injection of Dubious Intent

* * *

“Ouch! Fucker bit me,” Bridget grumbled. She shook the mouse in her hand. "Ohoho, you've got it coming, you little beast."

Thomas sniggered. “And that’s why I don’t work with mice. Tubes don't bite back, you know.” The grin remained as he pipetted, reagent to tube, steadying the apparatus with his free hand. His movements were rigid and mechanical, almost robotic. A dozen small tubes were lined up in a plastic rack, each smaller than the size of his thumb. Each lid was labeled with a three digit ID.

“Yeah, well. I always win in the end. Call it sweet, sweet vengeance.” The mouse squeaked as she injected it. It went still.

Thomas grinned. “Hey, sometimes a little violence is the answer. Whatever helps you get through the day.” He paused and glanced over at his open notebook.

“What about you?” she wondered aloud. "What gets you through the day?"

He sighed. “Avoiding the harsh light of day, mostly. The world is a vicious place. The lab is methodical. Clean. Quiet.” He shrugged. “Mostly. I suppose Simon does ruin the peace and quiet, a bit.”

She leaned back away from the glass of the sterile hood. There was a taped up sheet of paper there with some common calculations. She checked it, peeked over at the plastic bottles and the level of solution inside, and went back to work. “Hey, wasn’t he supposed to work this morning?” 

“Are you complaining?”

“No!” she vehemently denied. “Absolutely not. Maybe he did the world a favor and got himself hit by a bus.”

“I’ve never been that lucky.” He finished his pipetting and ejected the tip into a plastic container. He returned the pipettor to the rack with its fellows, then began snapping down tube lids.

There was a door slammed down the hall and far away. Then, the indistinct sound of shouting. Thomas and Bridget both turned their faces toward the source of the sound. “Is that Tully?” Bridget asked suddenly.

“Holy shit he sounds pissed!” Thomas said, amused.

“Tully doesn’t get pissed.”

“Apparently he does!” Thomas laughed as Tully stalked into view. His white hair had gone astray in all different directions, and his face was so red it was almost purple. White brows drew low over beady grey eyes. His usually stooped shoulders were sharp and tense, almost vulture-like. “Good morning, Dr. Tully!” Thomas greeted, pretending not to notice the cloud of hostility following their PI into the lab.

He stepped into the lab and slammed the door so hard that the glassware on every shelf rattled. “That little shit!” he snarled. He crossed his bony arms across his chest. “You know what he said to me?”

“Who?” Bridget asked.

“Simon!”

They shook their heads.

“He looks me square in the eyes and tells me he’s too good for this lab. He's got a better offer and he’s done effective today, he says. I almost laughed out loud I was so beside myself. A better offer? I doubted it. But even more so, I was just happy someone took the problem off my hands. He's running out of places to go. So I'm just trying to make conversation, wish him the best of luck, trying to be polite—“

“Better offer where?” Thomas wondered.

“—I asked him where he was going, just curious, mind you. You know what he says?” They stared. Bridget blew a strand of hair out of her eyes to avoid touching her face with mouse hands and shook her head. “Louise Somerville’s lab.”

“What?!” they yelped in unison.

“Exactly. How in God’s name did _Simon Lafferty_ get into Louise Somerville’s lab?”

Bridget’s mouth remained hanging open. Thomas just looked confused.

Tully wasn’t finished. “I don’t understand it. Maybe I’m in the wrong business. We’ve been working our tails off on this project just so we could find one tiny piece of the Mentis puzzle. I put all of my projects on hold because Graham asked me as a personal favor. Any of us could be a valuable addition to her lab, if only she’d give us a chance. Put the Tully team under Somerville’s control, we’d have had this thing knocked out in no time. I made that very clear. Louise was very particular about not needing any direct help. If you ask me, she just doesn’t want anyone in her way. I get it. Scientists are introverts and we all have our particular quirks. Maybe it’s just her way to work alone. Fine.” He sliced a hand through the air. “But Simon? It doesn’t even make sense. It makes nonsense, in fact. He has no skills to speak of. He’s clumsy, sloppy. It just doesn’t…it doesn’t make any sense,” he finished.

“Wow,” Thomas mouthed. He and Bridget exchanged looks.

“Oh God,” Bridget muttered. “Now he’s going to be positively insufferable.”

Tully sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I guess the bright side is…he’s out of here.”

Just then, Simon himself walked past the lab window and waved smugly. The three of them stared, too stunned to do much else. Louise walked ahead of him, her strides smoother. She caught sight of Simon waving and leveled a tiny little smirk at Dr. Tully. He sucked in a deep breath that came out as a barely restrained growl. “Aw, hell,” he mumbled as the two disappeared from view. “I never thought I’d be one of those people that wishes ill on a person,” he confessed. “But I don’t think I’d mind, for him. Bloody ridiculous.”

“Nope,” Bridget agreed. “Some people just hurt everything they touch.”

Thomas barked a laugh. “Says the girl with the dead mouse in her hand.”

She looked down. “If I didn’t need this particular mouse’s brain slices as much as I did, I would throw this dead rodent at you.”

“No horseplay in the lab,” Thomas shot back. "It's the rules."

“I’ll be in my office drinking if you need anything,” Tully joked grimly. He walked away shaking his head.

* * *

Louise flicked a syringe. Satisfied, she turned her attention to Simon.

“So what’s this for?” Simon asked.

“Mentis A2,” she said. “This is the most recent incarnation of the Mentis project.”

“Holy shit,” he breathed, awestruck. “You’re giving this to me?”

“Shh,” she cautioned with a smile. “You can’t tell anyone. This is completely off the books. Mentis is meant to unlock the hidden potential of our amazing brains. In particular, the ability to heal and repair the body under duress, but...who knows what it can really do. Think of all of your wildest dreams, of all the things you wish you could do. With this, it might all be possible. We’ll make you godlike, and then you can go on to do great things without all the media fuss and government needles. Just you, and me, and this.” She lofted the syringe.

Simon grinned. “I like the sound of that.” His smile dampened. “But hey…is that safe to use?”

“I’ve tested it on over a hundred mice and six monkeys,” she lied smoothly. “All of them were fine. It’s perfectly safe.”

He didn’t appear convinced. His hand clasped over his arm and rubbed nervously. “What if something goes wrong?”

She pouted. “Simon, don’t you trust me?”

“Well, yes, but…” He shrugged and grimaced. “I’m just thinking about my little girl. If there’s any chance at all this could go bad for me, I—“

“Hm. I can understand that. It’s okay, Simon,” she demurred, setting the syringe down on the lab bench. “Not everyone is destined for greatness. If you want me to, I can go talk to Dr. Tully and ask him to take you back.” She shrugged. “Maybe Thomas would be a better choice. Or Bridget.”

He frowned. Took a minute to think about it. “No. No, I’ll do it. Always wanted to live forever. Seeing the future would be incredible. Do you think it’s possible?” He licked his lips.

She smiled. “Anything is possible. Immortality and foresight were never the intention, but I suppose it isn’t completely out of the park. Not every side effect is a bad one. Sometimes, side effects include better things, like increased libido or heightened sensitivity to taste or color.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. And the mice and the monkeys are fine, right?” He was wavering.

“Right as rain.” She wasn't worried. 

“Alright. Do it, then.”


	3. The Moment of Bated Breath

She waited, holding her breath. She hardly dared to blink for fear that she would miss it. Simon stared back, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. He set one hand down beside himself and made as if to get up. “Don’t move,” she whispered loudly, pinning him with the force of her eyes. 

He raised one eyebrow. “I feel fine.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Okay, fine. Move. Just move slowly.”

He smirked and slid his shoes to the floor. He held his hands up slowly, then stood. Her eyes roved all over, from the injection site to his forearms to his eyes and face. Simon’s grin widened. “How do you feel?” she demanded.

“I said I feel fine.”

“In intelligent words. Describe.” She crossed her arms, not even trusting her hands to contain their excitement. The last thing she needed was to act on the impulse to peel open his eyelids and run her fingers up and down his limbs. He’d like that too much.

“Horny.”

“Forget it.” She turned away, swiped up her lab notebook, and flipped it open to the page she had paper clipped. 

He laughed, started cracking crude jokes that she mostly tuned out. She wanted, more than anything, to send him home. His presence in her laboratory stronghold was unwanted. He was a bad scientist, a malignant distraction, and a general meat grinder to her usually serene nerves. 

She found herself watching the clock. At first, she figured it was only her natural curiosity, trying to gauge the appropriate time for a reaction to Mentis. After all, the serum should react differently in human subjects than it would in vitro. There were thousands of different factors affecting uptake, thousands of metabolic enzymes that might interfere with its ability to work quickly. Checking the clock was just her subconscious measuring effectiveness.

But when Simon asked what she was doing after work and she could no longer ignore the fact that he wasn’t going to stop hitting on her, she lost it.

Inwardly, of course.

That was when she was able to accept that she was watching the clock as a silent cry for help. She needed to get away from him, even if he was the first subject ever to be blessed with the child of her brilliance. 

“Louise?” he prodded again.

“I’m so sorry, Simon. I have a conference tomorrow I have to prepare for. I won’t have any time to go out tonight.”

“Oh.” He paused, thinking. “You never mentioned this before…?”

“I’ve only just remembered. I’ve been so busy with our project, I think I forgot what day it was.”

“It’s cool. When are you back?”

She snapped her notebook shut and stared at it. “Thursday.”

“Okay. What if I...react?”

“Call me immediately.”

“Okay. And if I die?”

She smiled to herself. “Call me immediately.”

He snorted. “Yeah. Okay then. When are you leaving the lab?”

She glanced sidelong at the clock. 3:03. Close enough. “Now.”

“Oh. Should I maybe go home, too?”

The thought of him unleashed in her precious laboratory was completely abhorrent. “Definitely.” He frowned, and she sensed that she’d insulted him. She smiled at him. “You’ve been working hard, and I’m not one hundred percent certain how the reaction might manifest. You might get suddenly tired or behave erratically, and I’d prefer if you did so in the safety of your own home.” She shrugged. “My lab has dangerous oxidizers and acids that could hurt you badly.”

“Right. Good idea.” He nodded to himself. Sucked in a breath and looked around. Blinked at the clock as if seeing it for the first time. “I guess I should go now, too, then.”

She gave a short nod. “Thanks for your help today, Simon.”

“My pleasure, Louise.” He gave a mock bow with a little flourish. Then he sighed, the long sigh of a man who did far more work than he did, and removed his lab coat. He gave another wave, then exited the lab. 

She watched idly as he ambled down the long, lacquered white hallway. When the motion stopped, her eyes fell back to her notebook, disappointed. With a sour twist to her lips, she flipped the notebook back open. It pained her to do it, but observations were observations, even if they were negative. Right after  _ Subjected injected at 11:07 a.m., _ she continued her entry.

_ No swelling at anticubital venipuncture site. Subject exhibited no signs of discomfort after injection. Immediately after, subject reported feeling nothing out of the ordinary except sexual arousal. Arousal could potentially be dismissed as subject’s personal quality. At 15:06, subject went home showing no sign of effects. _

Her pen hovered above the page. She buried her fingers in her hair, thinking, wondering if she should write anything else down. After a moment, she continued.  _ Subject exhibited signs of concern over possible effects and hesitance to leave the lab.  _ She stared at the words. It was probably too early to consider the experiment a failure, but she had a feeling. She’d wasted her attempt on Simon, and now he’d haunt her forever. 

She sighed and looked around the lab. At the shining glassware lining the shelves. At the gleaming fume hood with its half-filled sharps containers and rubber hoses. At the stands of pipettes and the plastic boxes of tips. She’d made a mistake, and it was one she couldn’t take back. How was she supposed to remove Simon from her lab, now that he was here? She’d been too excited, too hasty. She’d have to learn from that. _ I can be more patient,  _ she thought.  _ We can start with this.  _

She lovingly tucked her notebook into her briefcase and locked it up. Then she turned off the lights, casting her lab in clinical blue-black darkness. There were lights on in a lab down the hall. Probably Tully’s lab. They’d be working extra to make up for Simon’s projects, and Tully had something to prove. She smirked as she shut the door. She even made sure to wave goodnight to them as she walked past.

Once back at her apartment, she ordered Chinese takeaway and had it delivered. She flipped channels until it arrived. After that, she had to leave it on some kind of channel so she could enjoy her food with both hands. It wouldn't do to get sauce on the clicker. She left the television on some show where a gentleman in a sport coat was just leaving a blue telephone box. A pretty young blonde followed him out, arguing with him about something. She was halfway through her noodles when she realized what it was. 

Doctor Who.

She laughed to herself as soon as she figured it out, amused at the coincidence. She thought about changing the channel to avoid having her brain contaminated with whatever Simon enjoyed as ‘entertainment,’ but couldn’t immediately see the remote from where she sat. She wasn’t about to get up now, not when her lap was an assortment of napkins, chopsticks, takeaway containers and fortune cookies. Changing the channel could wait.

By the time she was finished with her food, she had decided she didn’t hate the program after all. She even set her containers down on the side table and kicked her feet up on the coffee table to finish the episode. Full of Chinese and exhausted from disappointment and dealing with Simon, it wasn’t difficult to doze off when the end credits music came on.

And then the phone rang. 


	4. The Undeniable Allure of Illegal Science

* * *

She picked up the phone. “This is Louise.” There was no answer. “Hello?” She waited. “Hello?” The receiver roared as someone breathed heavily into the phone. She nearly rolled her eyes. “Simon?” Nothing.  _ Fucking hell. Useless even as a test subject.  _ “Simon, is that you?”

“Louise?” His voice sounded tight, almost afraid. 

Her breath caught, all of her dreams suddenly realized. She had to tamp down hard on her excitement. Simon was calling. Clearly, something extraordinary had occurred. She bit back a thousand questions she wanted to ask and instead asked the one she knew he wanted to hear. “Are you alright, Simon?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll be right over. Where do you live?”

He gave her his address. She cut him off halfway through with a tart "I'm on my way" as she shut and locked her own door. She knew right where his apartment complex was. It was difficult to keep from speeding, though her logic narrowly prevented that. Getting pulled over by the police would only cost more time, after all. Had to talk herself out of going to the lab, too, to gather up a half ton of supplies just in case. It only needed to be an inquiry. All she needed for that was her notebook. The case rested on the passenger seat. Buckled in...because it was exponentially more precious than anyone’s child, even her theoretical own. 

She parked the car at the curb. Forewent the elevator and rushed up the stairs. She stood just outside his door and stared at the number 317 gleaming in the dim light, trying to contain herself. Finally, with her heartbeat just barely in check, she donned her plastic smile and knocked. 

There was a moment’s hesitation, then the scratchy rasp of the chain being undone. The clunk of the deadbolt, and the rattle of the door knob lock. It was only then that Louise was reminded of what a terrible section of town this was (not that it mattered). The door opened about three inches. Simon peeked out from the crack like a wounded animal. His eyes darted, everywhere but at her face. “Louise.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Nervous,” he answered readily. “But here…” He opened the door. “Come on in.” He stepped aside to let her enter. “Sorry...I’d have cleaned up, but…” he trailed off.

“It’s fine,” she assured him, even though it wasn’t. The air was stuffy and stank of primitive man. She had to avoid looking at the overflowing trash and the wrappers that had missed it, not to mention the rancid sink of dishes.  _ Wretched, _ she thought. When she finally focused on Simon, he was rubbing from his forehead to his temples and his eyes were closed. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my head,” he mourned. “I felt this headache coming on about an hour ago, and--”

“Why didn’t you call me then?” she pounced.

“Because I get headaches all the time. I should have glasses but I don’t want to look like a nerd, so I’ve just been going without.” He shrugged. “So sometimes, my head hurts. But not like...this.”

She set her case down, spun the digits to the correct code, and popped it open. She gently removed her notebook and flipped it open to the paper clipped page. “Describe,” she commanded softly, sinking into the nearest chair. There were apparently discarded clothes beneath her, but that was of little import. 

Simon was apparently in rare form. He skipped all of the innuendo and cut straight to the chase. “Headache began at about 6:15. It started at the back of my head, right here.” He rubbed a spot at the back of his skull. “And then it just started spreading. Now, my whole brain feels like it’s throbbing. It pulses constantly, like...like with every heartbeat? Does that make sense?”

She penned down his explanation. “Do you feel it in your eyes or your muscles as well?”

“No, it’s only in my head. Nothing like a migraine or tension headache, no.”

“What were you doing when it started?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and sat down on a bar stool at the counter. “I…” His lips pulled into a pained grimace. “I was…” He took a deep, slow breath. All of the color drained from his face. His eyelids opened, but his eyes were white, rolling to the back of his head. His head lolled back, hands went slack, and he tipped over sideways on the stool. His heavy body hit the floor, head cradled against one arm.

“Simon!” She clutched her notebook and crouched at his side. Her fingers hovered above his shoulder, hesitating. Should she help him, or should she…? Her eyes drifted to her notebook, pinned against her folded knees. Her eyes hardened upon its worn cover.  _ No, this is what I have worked for,  _ she thought.  _ It was all for this. Pull yourself together, Louise.  _ This was the most important moment of her life. She smiled and opened her notebook and began writing. She checked his vitals, noted the color of his skin, made sure he wasn’t swallowing his own tongue. She noted the position he had fallen, the moments leading up to him fainting, even made a couple of rough sketches. 

Only after she was sure she’d captured the event as thoroughly as she knew how on paper--extensively, and with excruciatingly particular penmanship--did she set her notebook down. She leaned over his face. “Simon.” She patted his cheeks. He didn’t stir. “Hey, wake up.”

The corners of his eyes twitched. “Who’s there?” he mumbled.

“Louise,” she informed him.

“No...who’s with you?” 

She blinked and looked around. She listened intently to the notably empty hallway and the pervading silence. “It’s just me, Simon. Are you feeling alright?”

He groaned and opened his eyes, then slowly sat up, leaning back on one palm. “I’m fine.” He put a hand to his head and stared at seemingly nothing, focusing on a distant point on the wall, his expression morphing from confusion to interest to apprehension, then back to confusion again. 

Louise looked past him, trying to see what he was seeing. Nothing was there. She flipped open her notebook and started jotting notes. 

Simon didn’t seem to notice. “I am not crazy,” he said to himself. He looked down at his lap, then blinked and looked back to the empty apartment. “You can hear that, right? That there’s something else here?”

She bit her lip to keep from smiling. “What do you hear, exactly?”

“A lot o’ goddamn noise!” he shot back. He squeezed his eyes shut and went quiet for a moment. “Sorry. You don’t hear it, do you?” he asked, quieter now.

“No, it’s just you.”

He sighed, resigned himself to description instead. “It’s noise. Incessant, unclear, undefined noise. It’s wordless, and painful. My head still feels like it’s coming apart. If anything, it’s worse. Are my...my ears bleeding? I'm worried my brain might be hemorrhaging...”

"You look perfectly fine to me." She did smile then, though less brightly than she might have liked. “Have you eaten?” she asked.

He shrugged helplessly. “I had a ramen cup when I got home before my head exploded. The package is more or less in the trash if you want to read the back.”

She was momentarily confused before she realized he must have assumed she was still fishing for details. “I don’t need the package information,” she denied. “I was just wondering if I could buy you dinner.”

He smiled instantly, though it was more subdued than usual. He touched his hand lightly over his heart and acted mildly surprised. “Are you asking me out, Miss Somerville?”

“On a date?” She thought about it. Was immediately repulsed. But Simon was her walking, talking, breathing, living experiment now. In her own nefarious way, she didn’t want to leave his side. “If you’re up to it--if your headache is manageable--and if I can bring my notebook...sure.”

"My skull could be broken in seven places with grey matter oozing out of my nose and I'd still tell you I'd love to."

"That would make you hideous," she remarked before she could stop herself.

He got to his feet. "Not much more than usual." He smiled at her.

At least he was honest. "Hard to argue with that."


	5. The Rapid Metamorphosis of a Human Brain

Every fiber of her being thrummed with the hair-trigger readiness of a feline predator. She sat at the edge of her chair, leaning forward on her hands. She smiled, but it felt too similar to baring her teeth. She watched every move Simon made, categorizing each action as mundane or potentially exciting. It was strange, to be so interested in something so ordinary. She observed each bite of food travel from plate to mouth. She studied the angle of his hand, the possible presence of a slight tremor. She wondered if his mouth had always opened that wide or if it might be some kind of side effect. His feet shifted under the table. His eyes roved the restaurant...but were they twitching, or was she imagining that, too?

“Didn’t you have a conference to go to?” he asked after a time. 

His eye twitched, and her gaze focused in on the muscle tic, hungry for more.  She was so fascinated, she almost forgot to answer. She waved it off, unconcerned. “I had to cancel.”

“Oh. Why?” He pushed his plate away and put his napkin down on the table.

She smiled. “Because I’d rather be here with you.”

He stared at her. Then he laughed uncertainly. “You don’t really mean that.”

“Of course I do, Simon. I’ve really enjoyed our time together. Working with you has opened my eyes to the brimming potential of our partnership.” She tilted her head and poured on the charm.

And he bought it. He smiled sheepishly and scratched idly at his scalp. “You were paying for this, right? That’s what you said.” He lowered his voice. “This is a little outside my price range.”

“I don’t typically let men purchase my food,” she confirmed. “Most expect payment regardless.”

He relaxed, visibly relieved. “Thanks. I mean...I didn’t want you to think I don’t want to pay...I just can’t right now, is all. Tully was shaving my hours. Gave some bullshit about how I wasn't pulling my weight. I do ten times the amount of work as Bridge and Tom. I’m just...struggling to get by. Things are really hard right now...”

He looked around the restaurant again, and Louise settled back on her chair like a curious cat. He was different now than he had been. Nervous, almost uncomfortable. Every interaction with him, he’d been pompous and overconfident. But in private settings, he didn’t seem half as secure. In the back of her mind, she wondered if that was a symptom as well. “How’s your headache, Simon?” she asked instead.

“Still there,” he admitted cautiously. “I’m okay, though.” His smile was forced, though, and fleeting. Just a twitch of the lips with no joy. 

Her eyes traveled up and down his body, scanning for signs of malaise. His right hand lay splayed across the tablecloth, but his left was squeezed into a tight fist, and he was holding it close to his chest. 

“You’re staring,” he observed. He didn’t sound pleased.

“I thought you’d like that,” she teased.

He sighed as the remnants of feigned joy drained slowly from his features. His face grew deadly serious. “I would if I didn’t know why you’re staring,” he said, his voice low and intense. “I’m not an idiot. This isn’t because you suddenly realized you liked me, is it? All you care about is this venom in my veins.” He opened and closed his left hand slowly, as if trying to regain feeling.

“Of course I care about you, Simon,” she assured him. “You’re my valued--”

“Cut the shit, Louise,” he snapped. He leaned across the table over his apparently injured hand. “You want to know the truth? I feel like there’s seven tons of bricks on top of my head, weighing it down. Crushing my mind. There are a million noisy voices, but none of them saying words. Once in a while, I get something. One word. And it’s shouted, and I want to jump out of my chair.”

“You hear voices?” she breathed, too excited to stop herself. Her hand made a half conscious move toward her lab notebook. 

His eyes followed her movement and froze on her hand. He laughed humorlessly. “I knew it. That’s it. I quit.” He stood suddenly. 

Her mouth fell open. “You can’t quit,” she told him. 

“Thank you for the opportunity, Louise. I really enjoyed working with you, but this...this is all too real for me. I have to think about my daughter. You--you promised me good things. Reading minds, healing powers, godlike ability…”

She sat straighter in her chair. “We don’t know that you don’t have those things yet. Give it time.”

_ “I _ know!” he snapped, too loudly. Heads turned at other tables. “Sorry,” he said to them. “I know,” he continued, quieter now. “I'm not reading minds. The minds are reading  _ me _ . There’s all this constant background noise and it’s--it’s driving me crazy, if I’m honest! I can't have a moment of peace! And I’m sitting here, trying to keep my head from exploding and trying to sort out what words are said and what words aren’t, and--”

“You said ‘a word,’ a moment ago. Are they phrases, or just an occasional word?”

“And there you go again!” he exclaimed, eyes wide. “I swear to God, I’m just trying not to _die_ , and I don’t think you give a shit if I do or not! I could be gasping for breath and you’d just be there scrawling in your godforsaken notebook! I’m out. I can’t do this anymore.”

“You’ve barely done anything at all,” she observed petulantly.

“Believe me, it was more than enough. You're pretty, but you aren't _that_ pretty.” He grabbed his jacket and stormed off. 

He got three steps in before his steps shortened. His hand clutched at one leg. Then he stopped and stared at his leg. “No, no, no, no…” he moaned to himself. “Last fucking thing I need…” He sighed heavily.

“Do you need help, Simon?” she asked sweetly. She dove into her purse for cash and left it on the table. He was silent and unmoving. "Simon?" she prompted again.

“Yes, damn you,” he replied testily.

She was laughing on the inside, loving every moment of his pain. His body was experiencing the first flight of her genius. He could die or become a god, for all she cared. The fact of the matter was that  _ something _ was happening to him, and she was witnessing it firsthand. Either his body was breaking down or metamorphosing, but one thing was certain--she wasn’t about to miss a moment of it. “Come on, sweetheart,” she cooed. “I’ll take you home with me.”

“No,” he denied. “Take me back to my place.”

Inside she was celebrating. There was no way he could get rid of her now. Simon Lafferty was entirely at her mercy. “You won’t be able to get me to leave anyway, but sure,” she remarked. She appeared at his side.

“I’ll--”

“What?" she challenged. "Call the police? What will you tell them?”

He fell silent, glowering. 

She looked down at his leg, back to business. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It stopped working,” he said softly.

“Your leg stopped working?”

He nodded. “Ya.”

“Alright.” She slung one of his arms over her shoulder and helped him hobble back to her car. It was difficult; he was heavy and stumbled awkwardly. She helped him get situated, then went around to her side. Before she entered the car, she opened her notebook upon the roof of the car and recorded more findings. It appeared Simon was having some kind of neurological dysfunction, but his mind was flowering further. Fascinating.

He didn’t speak a word the whole way back to his apartment. Merely stared out the window with his face in one hand, almost bored. She peeked sidelong at him whenever possible. Mostly he looked sullen. She wished she knew what he was thinking about. Or what he was hearing inside his mind. He was angry with her, though. She'd get more answers after he calmed down. When she pulled the car up against the curb and turned the headlights off, she turned. “Simon, we’re here,” she informed him.  

“Hm?” 

“Were you sleeping?”

“Mm,” he mumbled. 

She frowned, disappointed. That explained the quiet. Unfortunately, it also nixed her thoughts of Simon waxing philosophically. No deep thoughts. Just a quick nap. Typical. 

“Ah’m just really...tired,” he explained. “Sorry.”

She helped him out of the car, then froze when she saw his face. His eyes were completely bloodshot, the sclera almost crimson. His eyes were already sunken into his head. He stumbled on his way out of the car. He whimpered, but didn’t say any words. The sight of him took her breath away. Her pulse raced, thrilled at some kind of progression. “Come on, Simon,” she urged, concerned someone might see. Blessedly, the elevator was empty. They managed to get to his apartment unmolested. She pawed around his pockets and fished out his keys, unlocked the door. She half-dragged him to the couch. He fell into it, head lolling back against the cushions. 

She stood with her arms crossed, watching him and breathing hard from the physical exertion. He didn’t seem to care she was there. His eyes rolled back into his head. He didn’t speak. After a few minutes, she moved one of the stools from the kitchen to in front of the couch, crossed her legs at the knee. She opened up her notebook and started writing. When she was finished with that, she merely watched him. His head lolled infrequently, and he moaned from apparent pain. But he didn’t speak to her again and he made no move to get up.  _ Beautiful _ , she thought. 

Strange, how a mediocre fat slob became a gorgeous work of art in the hands of a proper artist. 

When Simon failed to move for what seemed like a long time, she decided it would be best if she got some sleep. It was late, and she wanted to have a clear head to observe whatever tomorrow might bring. She took Simon’s bed and set an alarm on her cell phone. She drifted off to sleep dreaming lofty dreams of a most interesting future. She was exceedingly curious about what else Mentis could do.

And what she could do with it. 


	6. The Deconstruction of a Work of Art

* * *

She sensed menace before she was fully awake, but the point was driven home when her throat closed suddenly and completely. She tried to scream, but the pressure against her throat constricted her breath. She gagged and stared up into the bright red eyes of a madman. _Simon!_ she screamed silently. Tiny colored blurry dots floated in her vision. The images winked a dull grey and then technicolor rainbow. Her blood pulsed in her head painfully. Fear was the first emotion, but it was only the first of many.

His lips curled back over his teeth. There was blood on his teeth as well, and draining from his ears. He was sobbing, too, hitching deep breaths and damp tears. “Make it stop!” he commanded. “Make them stop! Make me stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!” He shook her against the bed with every word, demanding freedom and killing her at the same time.

Somewhere deep inside, her emotional center cried for release. She knew she was dying. She was panicking, thrashing, begging with her eyes to be let go. A more dominant part of that psyche was incredulous, too, that someone as great as she was doomed to die in the disloyal mitts of a baseborn cretin like Simon.

But her logical brain...her marvelous, elegant mind had freed itself from the bonds of her emotions and was rapidly cataloging every moment of her predicament. She saw the bursting blood vessels in his eyes and the bright red of his skin. She saw the sweat beaded on his forehead and the swelled veins at his temples. She could see the muscle tension in the taut cords of his neck. And in that haven of intelligence, she simply ignored her human side and let go. She even smiled.

At that, though, he gritted his teeth so hard they creaked. He snarled, a deep animal rumble more beast than man. She would have been more thrilled by the regression to baser instincts, but it was at that moment that an immense, malicious pressure forced itself upon her mind. She screamed, as much as a raw throat robbed of breath could manage. The pain of it shredded her tender vocal cords, but she didn’t have the capacity of thought to care. Her mind raced, struggling desperately to escape the onslaught of mental invasion. The pressure built, rising, rising, until she thought her brain was about to burst. Her eyes ached miserably, focused on the dim version of Simon through the haze.

Feebly, her fingers searched the nightstand, seeking anything that might free her from his grip. Her fingertips brushed over her notebook, then bumped into her pen. Adrenaline was forcing her emotions to take hold, though her mind was still razor sharp on the details of Simon’s mania. Her shaking fingers bumped the pen away just as the window shattered with a deafening, crystalline crash. The wall crackled like snapping twigs as Simon’s fingers squeezed harder, intent on crushing her delicate throat.

Finally, she managed to wrap one fingertip around the pen and pull it closer. The rest of her fingers followed suit, clinging to the mundane like a lifeline. She situated the pen between herself and Simon, ready to thrust upward into his throat.

It was at that moment that his grip went completely slack. She experienced a wash of relief, thinking he had seen her attack and let up. Then he coughed in a series of tiny fits, spraying a fine mist of blood over her face. He leaned on his hands on either side of her head. Blood poured from his eyes, then from his nose and ears. Another nauseating pulse of pressure seem to flatten Louise’s skull. Her eyes rolled back into her head as she shifted her focus onto staying alive. She concentrated hard on the attack on her mind, struggling to defend against what felt like a strangulation of her own brain.

Just as quickly as the second assault came it was gone, like a stronger yet brief echo of the first. From the now immobile Simon, there was a soft pop, much like a week-old balloon cut only slightly in the thickest part of the latex. Simon tipped forward. His forehead crashed into her nose like a punch in the face, the pen uselessly sideways between their bodies.

She didn’t move. She felt like she’d been hit by a subway train. Everything hurt. As circulation returned to her head, it throbbed even more painfully than before, her brain making a starved grab at needed oxygen. Every breath stung, slicing her abused throat like shards of glass. She breathed in tiny, shallow breaths to minimize the pain.

Her brain kept cataloging. Eyes darted to the crown of Simon's head. She tilted sideways, observing the blood draining from his ears. She swallowed a wave of revulsion when she noticed the tiny bits of brain matter in the slick trail. Her usual cool, analytical detachment reached its limit. Her stomach churned, threatening to spill. Suddenly, she needed to be free. The details she'd been ignoring came shuddering back. Simon stank. He was oozing blood onto the bed and her clothes. There was _a dead man_ atop her. He had to be dead, after all. No man survived an apparent complete meltdown of the brain.

She shoved him, but he hardly moved. She squirmed, thrashed, whining from deep in her ruined throat. Finally, with a surge of determination, she shoved him off the side of the bed. He hit the floor with a heavy sound, knuckles snapping against the floorboards. She sucked in a deep, jagged-sharp breath and stared at the ceiling.

When thought fragments finally became coherent enough, she understood the profound shift in events. _I'm a murderer now,_ she thought. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she must have known it would happen. Mentis had never been tried on humans. It was sure to need tweaking before it'd be safe. Her mind still went numb with the realization: _I actually killed a man._

It was for a good cause. Science had taken a dramatic step forward with this. Still, society wouldn't see it that way. They had prickly rules about ethics and acceptability. There were bylaws and restrictions that kept average folk in line. Kept them from 'playing God.' She needn't be concerned about the law, though, so long as she could steer well clear of it.

She licked her lips and tasted blood. It brought her back to the present, where she faced an immediate problem. Simon would be bleeding all over the floor. She'd need to scrub the boards clean. Her clothes would need to be burned. Simon himself...the corpse...would have to be disposed of.

 _After_ she collected all of the samples she needed.

Her heart started pounding. Blood rushed back to every part of her body too fast. Her vision winked in colors again, rushing back to brilliant life. She snatched up her notebook and began writing furiously. She smeared a bit of blood on the pages, but it couldn't be helped. She stuck a piece of clear tape over it and turned the page. Kept writing, even though her fingers trembled with excitement. When every last detail had been recorded, she rushed home and dug into a trunk in the closet. She hadn't ever used her emergency supplies, but she'd maintained the trunk just in case. She kept sample vials, syringes, Mason jars and lids. She sped back to Simon's apartment and started collecting samples. Blood, skin, hair...brain. She took little bits of him, piece by piece, and stowed them in her briefcase next to her notebook.

Her heart was doing somersaults in her chest. She was laughing softly. She couldn't stop thinking of how happy he'd have been to know how much she loved him at that particular moment. As it turned out, love was a beautiful thing, after all. 

The rest of it was a simple matter. A clean room with no signs of blood. A packed suitcase full of Simon's clothes. An angry letter to the landlord about the disrepaired state of his apartment. Another one to her for breaking his heart. A few web searches for reasonable locations - England, Spain, Greece. Then she poured liquor down his throat and left his car with him in it in front of the 5 A.M. train.

She had one interview with the police after they found his letters. Only one, and for exactly seven minutes. She told them how obsessive he was, and how sloppy. Even threw in a few words about how he creeped her out, how she didn't feel safe leaving after dark. The Tully lab unwittingly corroborated everything. Within the hurried space of a week, Simon Lafferty was a done and gone footnote. In their minds, someone had finally succeeded in ridding the world of Simon. No one was surprised that he'd somehow managed to off himself. Only Louise Somerville knew the details.

But that, of course, was exactly as it was meant to be.


End file.
